


Out of It

by Azzandra



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Femdom, Horses, Kidnapping, Magic, Vaguely Victorian AU, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azzandra/pseuds/Azzandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Equius gets ridden, in more than one sense of the word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OtherCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherCat/gifts).



Three steps down the flight of stairs, Equius steps aside to allow a finely-dressed young woman to pass. She is human; a strange sight at this time of night, but perhaps she is visiting on Alternian friends and has decided to show them proper respect by arriving at an hour that would not inconvenience them.

Equius himself has only just ended his call upon Ms. Leijon, whom he considers a respectable match in the pale quadrant. His courtship has been going well, as evidenced by the fact that Ms. Leijon was extremely dismayed to hear that he would not be staying longer. He thought her exaggerated pouting was unnecessary, but not enough to make him stay longer than would be proper.

At any rate, he crosses paths with the human on his way out of the boarding house. She has a large, gaudy hat which obscures most of her face, but Equius catches glimpse of her black-painted lips as she smiles.

“Lovely night for a ride,” she says as she passes him.

Equius is puzzled by these words and the jocular tone, but decides that she must have him confused for someone else.

“Indeed,” he says neutrally, and nods his head in greeting.

She smiles wider and climbs the stairs, and though Equius looks up after her and should by all means be able to see under her hat, her face remains obscured by a trick of the shadows.

He continues his descent, putting the strange human woman out of his mind.

The night air is refreshing, carrying a slight scent of lilac. It’s unseasonably warm, but the breeze keeps it pleasant.

He considers finding a hansom cab, as the walk back to his lodgings is quite a long one, but his distaste for the wretched things overcomes his desire for convenience. Some of the cab drivers in this city treat their horses with negligence that disgusts him, and not rarely has he had to exchange harsh words on the subject. The last time he came very close to using unacceptable language towards a particularly obstinate cabbie whose hand was much too loose with the whip.

So Equius prepares himself for a long walk. He doesn’t get very far, perhaps two blocks down the street, before he reaches a flickering lamp post at an intersection. Next to it is a figure waiting patiently and he does a double take, because for a second, he thinks it’s the human he passed on the stairs.

He goes over the chronology of events in his head, however, and decides that it’s impossible. There is no way for her to be that same person, unless she somehow flew out a window and ran all the way around the building, which would be an utterly absurd string of events and thus one he rejects.

But when he passes by her, her hat tilts up suddenly and he stops in his tracks without meaning to.

“So how about that ride?” she says.

It’s the same voice, Equius realizes. He looks at her and sees the same black-painted lips. He still can’t see any other detail of her face, but her eyes are a piercing purple, visible through the shadows over her face.

She presents him with a bridle. Equius is confused by this illogical string of events and wishes to depart and put them out of his mind, but the woman approaches him as one would a skittish animal.

“Shh, don’t make this harder on yourself, it’ll be fine,” she says. There is nothing comforting in her voice, only mockery.

Equius feels a wave of nausea hit him. He thinks for a moment that he might have hit his head and gotten a concussion, except for the fact that he is still on his feet.

When the woman’s hand touches his shoulder, he doubles over. His head hurts, but the nausea hits a peak and blanks out his senses. He falls to his knees, but he doesn’t feel it, he only notices it after he looks down and sees that the pavement is closer than usual.

His instincts lag behind, so by the time it occurs to him to fight back, the world has become a strange mix of overlapping sensations. He can no longer tell if only his head hurts or his entire body, but the parts of him that he can still identify feel odd. There’s a sound of ripping textiles, there’s a strange sensation in his spine, there’s a heaviness in his feet, but these are all things he notices in brief moments of lucidity between fits of what is no longer nausea, but painful disorientation.

The balance of the world seems to shift, and Equius feels like he is falling.

Then it all stops.

It’s not sudden, exactly, but steadily, all the unsettling sensations he is experiencing seem to freeze into place. It is disconcerting, like stopping in mid-air while falling off a cliff, because while the nausea and pain are receding and Equius feels well again, he doesn’t feel like himself.

He wants to look down on his body, but his vision is confusing him at the moment. No matter how much he shakes his head, his brain insists that he is seeing two different images at once. He is quite astounded to note that he can see nearly all the way around, even though the images he sees are more blurry and unfocused than usual. The dim light of the lamp post appears more muted in color.

He turns his head and confuses himself with how wide an arc the motion describes, but then, once he manages to take a glimpse of his own body, he is forced to come to an unexpected conclusion.

He is now a horse.

He is a majestic black stallion, only the finest exemplar of the species, a powerful, beautiful creature whose majesty would in other circumstances cause him to weep the tears of the unworthy as he beheld it.

He, Equius Zahhak, a member of the nobility, whose blood is colder than most and superior to all but few, whose brilliant mind is only matched by the strength of his body, is a horse.

Somewhere in a corner of his mind, two different parts of him quietly shut down to prevent a cataclysmic overload.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” the human says.

He swivels his head to look at her, and then has to turn it slightly sideways because he can’t see straight ahead like he used to. He feels foolish for not having recognized a witch by sight. Her strange eyes, concealed beneath the hat, should have been an immediate sign of danger. He curses his lack of vigilence.

He cannot possibly imagine what depravities the wicked creature has in store for him.

But his imagination needn’t be involved, for she presents him with the bridle from before. He snorts involuntarily, a jolt going through him at the sight of it. She intends to use it on him, no doubt. Treat one of his esteemed caste as nothing but an animal, to be led around, to be ridden—

He takes a few steps back. Four feet are not such a difficult adjustment, though he still feels his body odd. The sound of hooves against pavement echoes down the streets, a beautiful music that Equius would usually appreciate much more, for all that he can hear it so much keener now.

She steps forward.

“You will behave,” she says in a stern voice. It must be more witchcraft, because Equius feels compelled to stand still and observe in morbid fascination as she puts the bridle on.

The feeling of the bit in his mouth is obscene. It fits much more comfortably than he would have expected. He’s certainly not enjoying the sensation—goodness no! How horrifying, to be reduced to actually enjoying this display of power over him. The frisson he feels is indignation, as befits the situation.

When the witch climbs on his back, Equius is startled. She doesn’t feel heavy at all, as even if he was not such a strong specimen of any species, she is still a mere human with not nearly the same bone or muscle density as a troll. By the feel of it, she isn’t riding side-saddle. Granted, there is no saddle to facilitate such a thing, but still. How scandalous.

Equius turns his head to see her legs exposed all the way up to her mid-calf by the hitched-up skirt. Unspeakable. Equius has never seen such shamelessness in his life, though perhaps he should have expected it from a young woman with such an offensive taste in hats.

She pulls the reins and Equius looks ahead.

“Let’s see how well you do,” she says, and then Equius feels her heels against his ribs.

He intends to play stubborn, but she must know this, because he can feel a touch of magic making him move anyway. He curses the witch in his head, but he doesn’t know how to even begin fighting for control. He must do everything she orders, no matter how compromising.

They trot through the city streets for a while, the only ones in sight on this unusually quiet night. Unexpectedly, they turn a corner and emerge at the periphery of the city, where the roads are still dirt. This must be more witchery, because they haven’t walked nearly enough to be this far away.

They eventually also leave behind the sad little shacks of the margins and take to a country road. By this point, Equius feels as if he has adjusted to this new form and he has a new appreciation for these softer roads.

“You’ve got a feel for this, don’t you?” the witch says at one point. “I don’t think I’ve had one get used to being a horse so quickly.”

Equius feels a wave of satisfaction at her praise, which he tries to smother down. He knows he is uniquely suited to appreciating this equine form, no matter how unfortunate the circumstances under which he received it. But he would not receive such compliments from _her_.

He snorts and shakes his head in what he hopes is a suitably indignant manner.

The witch laughs and spurs him on. Equius feels himself compelled forward and breaks out into a gallop.

The night air is bracing as it rushes past him. In many ways, running feels much more natural than walking, and he does it even as he feels the witch’s compulsion lessen. The countryside is a blur of rolling green hills and lonely trees.

His body is glorious. His mane flutters in the wind like a banner and great clumps of dirt are displaced with each strike of his hooves against the ground. For all his strength, he has never felt so powerful before.

“Faster,” the witch’s voice whispers in her ear, aided by magic, as the words would usually be lost to the wind.

He goes faster then, spurred not only by her voice or her heels, but by an impulse inside him, a new zest for life that he never would have suspected himself capable of possessing. His muscles strain to their peak capacity and his lungs burn with a delicious pain. He feels himself as a finely-tuned machine and discovers the same satisfaction in the motions of his new body as in the workings of the finest automatons he has ever built.

“Faster,” the witch says again, and faster he goes.

He runs fast enough to leave himself behind. Equius Zahhak is a distant memory; he has become the motion, the run, the landscape whizzing by. Time is only the space between breaths and the rhythmic sound of his hooves.

“Faster,” the witch says again, unnecessarily.

He runs for ages, until everything else loses meaning. He fights against fatigue with grim purpose, wrenching from his body one more beat of the hoof, and one more after that. The pain of the effort is exhilarating.

The witch laughs in his ear, not with mocking as he would expect, but with a girlish sort of glee. He can barely feel her on his back, and he can’t fathom how she is holding on. He considers trying to buck her off and continue on his own, but he feels that his disobedience would not feel as satisfying as her hands on his reins. Her presence is the contrasting element bringing everything into focus. For all that he is a perfect physical specimen, here is the rider—weaker, smaller, unworthy—and he must obey her.

And obey her he does. When she pulls the reins, he slows down, and then comes to a stop. Everything stings with exhaustion and his breathing is labored as it has never been before, but he still feels as if he could have gone on. His head is spinning, but he immediately misses the rush of the wind through his mane.

They are far away from the city, judging by the unfamiliar meadow around them. They left the roads some time ago, and Equius is sure they must be lost.

There is a creek nearby. His ears swivel around towards the sound of water. The witch hops down and leads him to it, and makes an amused remark when he starts drinking. He doesn’t pay her any mind, thirsty as he is. He drinks from a long time from the cold, clear waters and feels himself rested enough for another long run.

The witch probably guesses his thoughts, because she says, “No, no, that much effort could kill you.”

He is disappointed, but she takes the bridle off. This would be a good opportunity to run and leave her behind, or at least bite her. Instead, he allows her to run a hand down his mane.

There is a familiar sensation of gravity readjusting itself again. There is no pain this time, however, and considerably less nausea, and in the next few seconds, Equius finds himself lying on his back in the grass.

He is a troll once more, naked and covered in sweat, and the experience is all the more disconcerting for the fact that his nook is sopping wet and his bulge half-unsheathed. The impulse to run is now changed with him, into a more readily identifiable and intense feeling of arousal.

Equius makes an attempt at sitting up or covering his indecency, but the witch is on him in a second, her hands on her shoulders, pushing him back down on the grass.

“Well, you certainly enjoyed the ride,” she says with a devious smile. Her tone is insinuating, but Equius can’t argue when his condition is so clearly visible.

She sits back on her heels. Her smile turns into a smirk as she reaches down and lightly drags a fingernail up the underside of Equius’s bulge. It unsheathes completely, following the motion of her finger, and though it resembles magic, Equius knows that it is nothing more than the betrayal of his body.

“Would you like help with that?” she asks, her voice light and innocent. She inspects her fingers and the tacky blue genetic fluid on them. The way she rubs her fingers together is slow and sensuous, and he cannot help but stare.

Equius breaks into sweat anew.

“Yes,” he moans.

She leans down and he thinks she intends to kiss him, but even as he tilts his head hopefully, she ignores him and brings her lips to his ear.

“If you ask nicely,” she whispers.

A shudder goes through Equius, from the base of his horns right down to the tip of his bulge. His nook throbs, all the indignities that she has visited upon him this night crashing down on him in this moment and stoking the need between his legs.

“Please,” he hisses. Just getting out the word makes him ache, makes him eager to find out what new humiliations she can extract from him.

“I’m sorry, who are you asking?” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“Y-you, I require, I’m asking—” Equius flails around for whatever words she requires. “Please— please, mistress—”

“Good enough, I suppose,” she says, almost bored.

Her fingers find his nook and slide in easily with how wet it is. Equius’s bulge wraps itself around her wrist and up her forearm, squeezing and squirming.

Equius spreads his legs wider. He does not want to crush her hand between his thighs, but at the same time, he realizes how whorish and wanton it makes him look, and it sends an unexpected thrill through him.

She moves her fingers slowly inside him, rubbing against the walls of his nook with steady, deliberate motions. Her other hand is on his chest, fingernails pressing against his skin. It’s a warning not to get up, and even though Equius has no intention of doing so, he still finds himself focusing on that hand, even more than the one in his nook. Her nails are also black, a matte color darker than her skin, darker than the night sky, darker than her lips. There’s power he can’t fight against in those fingers, and he can feel it prickle against his skin. He takes perverse delight in the situation.

His bulge has begun squeezing tighter, seeking out as much attention as his nook has been getting. The witch extricate herself from its grasp, however, removing her fingers from his nook in the process.

Equius makes a displeased sound, like a rumble deep in his chest. He doesn’t dare growl, but he doesn’t want the stimulation to stop either.

The witch ignores him, but she hitches up her skirts and mounts him for the second time tonight, albeit in an entirely different sense of the word. She guide his bulge into her expectant nook. Compared to the night air, she is hot and confining, but so wet and soft that his bulge slips in easily.

He wants to buck his hips, go deeper, but her hands press down on his abdomen. She doesn’t say anything, but the message is clear. He wills himself to stand still. The grass itches at his back, his skin is cold with new sweat, but he behaves himself. He molds himself to her wishes, humiliating himself with every moment he obeys this creature, but unwilling to stop.

She begins moving her hips in tight circles. The noises Equius makes are loud and shameless, but he cannot help it. This feels nothing like the concupiscent liaisons meant to fulfill reproductive obligations. There is already something decadent and forbidden about coupling outside a quadrant, but with a stranger, with a creature who has him under his power, worse yet, with a human—

It is unthinkable. It is outrageous. Scandalous.  _Lewd._

She drags her nails down his chest, not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave lines of raised skin. The sensation goes like a bolt of lightning down his spine and his back arches against his will. His good horn digs into the ground as he throws his head back and moans.

He feels as alive as he did when he was running, and his perceptions undergo a similar narrowing. There is nothing but the witch, tight around his bulge, impossibly hot. His lungs burn, never really recovered from the run, but he is just as unwilling to stop now as he was then. There is a swelling wave inside him, rising inexorably until it swallows him whole. The witch moans—the first noise of pleasure he has heard out of her during this labor—and then she clenches down on his bulge even tighter than before. That is all it takes for the wave to break.

His hips buck convulsively as genetic material pours out of his nook in long spurts, over and over again, interminable waves of pleasure overlapping each other. They crest, and then begin losing strength, but leave him twitching with tiny aftershocks. His fingers dig into the ground as if trying to hold on to the world. He can’t recall ever feeling something so intense in his entire life.

Now done with him, the witch rises to her feet and adjusts her clothing. She is casual in her mannerisms, as if she if stretching her legs at the end of a carriage ride. She wrinkles her nose at her sleeve, soaked with his genetic material, but with a gesture of her fingers, it becomes clean again. Then she adjusts her gaudy hat, which has stayed in place admirably the entire night. Equius does not know if that is because of magic. Perhaps it is merely the judicious application of hat pins.

“My, that was quite a ride,” she says eventually, with a sardonic smile.

Equius lies on the cold ground, panting and with sweat drying fast on his skin. There is a gray tinge of dawn to the sky, but even he has to admit—to himself, if not out loud—that the night was not wasted.

**Author's Note:**

> As if I didn't have enough plotbunnies of my own, I had to [adopt one from someone else.](http://othercat2.tumblr.com/post/47404462707/free-fic-bunny-because-bwah)
> 
> I had no real intention of writing this until I listened to [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrADsCqWHB8) on a loop on my way home. The song doesn't relate to the fic much, but I couldn't think of a clever name, so here we are.


End file.
